


U-Turn

by hgdoghouse



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-27
Updated: 2011-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-26 14:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgdoghouse/pseuds/hgdoghouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>part of the unfinished 'Stepping Stones' series</p>
            </blockquote>





	U-Turn

Part of the unfinished Stepping Stones series - pre-slash

 

Twenty-four hours after the blast which had gutted the small south-east London wine bar, the pavement outside was still littered with glass and the detritus from the ensuing fire; the crowds of sightseers had long since dispersed.

Stepping out into the untainted air and immediately regretting the absence of an overcoat, Cowley turned back to his discontented agent. "You have something else to say on the subject?"

More accustomed to Cowley's methods of investigation by this time, Doyle met the piecing gaze head-on. "Why are we involved in this, sir? According to the Bomb Squad this has all the hallmarks of being an amateur job. There hasn't been a sniff of any of the usual terrorist mobs being involved and all the victims - barring one of the guys in the kitchen - are too young to have worked up much of a past. This is a nice law-abiding little community."

"Until someone blew it up," Cowley reminded him.

"Local ill-will, or some nutter with a grudge is nothing to do with us."

"We're involved because I say so. Have all the victims' families been questioned?"

Doyle returned the hard stare with interest. "All that are available. A couple are on their way back from their holidays - Jax will see to them. So far it's Mr and Mrs Average with their 2.4 children, a dog called Spot and a three year old car. All the victims were either doing their 'A' levels or just starting work - apart from a couple at the local polytech. I've never come across so many law-abiding citizens - parking tickets, speeding and one bust for smoking pot, another for dangerous driving. Oh, and one dad who did a five year stretch for aggravated B & E twelve years ago."

"I wasn't expecting miracles," Cowley said, although his expression begged to differ. "We can leave that to the local police to deal with. What about the owner of the wine bar?"

"It belongs to a limited company. The major shareholder is a Mrs Di Marco. Thirty-seven, divorcee, no kids or record. Her ex is working out in Saudi on a two year contract. There's no sign that he nipped back since he flew out in February. She'd on holiday in Corfu with her current fella. They're flying back tonight. Murphy's waiting for them at Gatwick."

"It seems to have been a profitable little business. You've checked it out?"

"I gave that to Lewis to handle," replied Doyle promptly, a firm believer in delegating - particularly when it came to reading a balance sheet that made about as much sense to him as reading Sanskrit.

"Did you now? I can see I've been remiss with regard to certain aspects of your training."

Realising he was in line for a course of monumental tedium, Doyle's scowl deepened. "We have got a Fraud Squad," he pointed out.

"And, if necessary, I'll call on their expertise. CI5 handles its own cases - unless you believe your skills are inadequate?"

"I'll help him with the big words," promised Bodie, crunching across heat-brittle Formica to join them.

"That will be a great help." Cowley's gaze swept over the smoke-blackened walls. "I want whoever was responsible for this. It's a bad business."

Staring moodily across the deserted high street, Doyle stuck his cold hands into his jacket pockets and ignored the platitude.

"It'll have certainly cost them their stars from Egon this year," said Bodie.

Doyle gave him a look of disgust.

Ignoring the questionable taste of the comment - Bodie's reaction was as good a defence mechanism as any, if not carried to excess - Cowley signalled to his driver.

"I want them," he said briskly. Sparing the two men flanking him a glance, he dismissed the inimical atmosphere between them with an impatient sigh. He had more important matters to concern him than their fragile egos, and no interest in what might have bruised them this time. "Get some sleep and be in early tomorrow, we have a busy day ahead of us. Goodnight."

"Night, sir," said Bodie.

Doyle barely noticed the Rover leave. He swung around at the light touch on his arm.

"C'mon, we've wasted enough time here, let's get back to civilisation." Bodie shivered and refastened the jacket of his immaculate suit before casting a disparaging glance down the high street. "What a hole. It's like everything dies once the last commuter train comes in."

"Lot you'd know about it. That's all you can say, is it?" After a day spent questioning blast survivors and their relatives Doyle was in no mood to make allowances. It was the relatives who'd got to him the most, sliding under his defences. In some ways life in CI5 made you soft, shielding you from some of the harsher facts of life he'd had to face on the Force. Bodie, for all his much vaunted experience in Africa hadn't seen the half of it.

Bodie paused, straddling the tape cordoning off the area. "What do you want me to say? What is it you need to hear - that it was a shame? OK, it was a shame. Feel better now?"

"That's it, is it?" snarled Doyle, catching hold of Bodie's arm. "What the hell does it take to get through that lofty detachment?"

Bodie stared at him for what seemed like a long time before giving a humourless smile which did nothing to reduce the bleakness of his eyes. "Why, when you can carry on over-reacting enough for the pair of us." Shrugging free of Doyle's grip he drew clear of the tape and headed for the car.

His face taut with anger Doyle grabbed hold of him again, swinging the off-balance figure of his partner against the vehicle. He stood braced for the retaliation which never came.

With a steadfast patience Bodie stared first at the hand restraining him, then at Doyle.

"All right," he sighed, "get it off your chest." He had seen this coming since they had met up earlier this evening. The drive back down from London had been short on conversation. Hell of an atmosphere though, he reminded himself.

"Twenty kids at a birthday bash, half of them too young to be drinking the cheap plonk in the first place, and the evening ends up with two dead and nine seriously injured. You've just spent the day with those in any condition to talk. All rolls off you, does it?" Doyle hadn't been allowed near one of the victims; seeing her sister had been enough, and she had got off lightly. He had seen his first burns victim as a fresh-faced P.C. answering an emergency call. He hadn't needed any reminders. She must have been a pretty kid...

The heat of Doyle's rage had blasted away Bodie's last pretence of a defence. All he wanted to do was to escape the reminders of the day - not the least of which was the man who was his partner. He ignored Doyle's threatening stance and gave him a look of pity. Like some half-baked white knight on some fucking great charger, he thought with disbelief. Clap hands if you believe in fairies.

"Less than you might think," he said quietly. Using exactly the amount of effort necessary to free himself, and no more, he had slipped down a shadowed side street before Doyle could reply.

Because he had walked away from his transport, having driven down with Doyle, Bodie headed for the railway station, striding out in an attempt to out-pace his thoughts.

His last interview had been the worst in a day spent amongst distraught relatives. Not so bad with Lisa herself; she was still too shocked to comprehend the reality of what had happened to her. Sweet sixteen and scarred for life, she was making a good recovery from surgery - lost a leg but never mind, they could do marvels nowadays. He had taken her parents from her hospital bedside to the neat semi-detached bungalow, finding them little different from all the other parents wiped out by hours of anxiety, any anger and bluster drained away, leaving them with a pathetic eagerness to tell him every minute detail of their lives if it would help their Lisa. He had still been with them, tape whirring while he watched them pretend to drink the tea he had made for them, when Mr Gordon had choked, turned purple and collapsed. He had died before the ambulance arrived. Bodie could still hear the small, soft sound Mrs Gordon had made; could still see the expression in her eyes. Couldn't seem to shake it off, in fact.

 

It took Doyle less than thirty-five minutes to reach London as he drove against the frenzied remnants of the rush-hour traffic. Despite his need for a shave, shower and change he headed straight for Lucy's flat, determined to obliterate every lousy memory of the day.

Halfway along Marsden road he checked the mirror and made an abrupt u-turn, taking a savage satisfaction in the screech of rubber before he headed back to CI5 headquarters. Maybe Lucy wasn't such a good idea tonight; he wasn't in the mood to be good company and she demanded a lot of her escort. Worth it, mind, he conceded fairly. But there was no point in souring her mood too. He'd take her out on the razzle tomorrow night.

Once past the security desk he collected a mug of coffee and headed for a telephone, ringing round all his old contacts to see if anyone wanted to trade favours.

 

The train back to London was late and stank of dirt. Bodie stopped at the first telephone box he found outside Charing Cross station. His hand full of change, he dialled Sue's number, willing her to be in, wanting nothing more than to lose himself in the warm, uncomplicated normality she would provide. The phone continued to ring.

Scratch another number from the little black book, he thought wryly. Bone-weary, he remained propped inside the telephone box, staring at his smeary reflection in the glass. He could check if Paula was in. He could even take Cowley's advice and get some sleep. On the other hand, if he really wanted to waste his time...

He left the box, glanced at the taxi rank and abandoned that idea before heading down Villiers Street towards the underground.

 

Wary of falling asleep where he sat over the interminable paperwork, Cowley wandered the corridors, needing to clarify his thoughts. The normal quiet of the night watch was absent tonight, the air humming with the clack of typewriters and telexes. He entered the open-plan area, unsurprised by the buzz of voices as agents sat, telephone receivers hooked under various jawlines as they called in favours from every informant on the books. Expenses would be up this month.

He took the complement of sleepless agents for granted. June Davis, the seventeen year old daughter of one of their ballistics team, had lost her right hand in the blast and CI5 looked after their own.

 

"I always said it wouldn't last," said Matheson from the doorway.

"You didn't hear me disagreeing, did you? Still, they made a pretty pair while it lasted," said King, propping himself tiredly on the other side of the door jamb. "Almost prettier than us."

Doyle looked up from the printout he had been scanning. "Everyone's prettier than you two. What wouldn't last?" he added.

"Your teaming with Bodie. I always thought the Old Man must have had a brainstorm, thinking it could work," said Matheson, shifting his wad of gum to the other side of his mouth.

"What about our teaming?" asked Doyle, giving them his undivided attention. If anyone did anything about Bodie, it would be him, not Cowley, and certainly not this pair of jokers.

"Oh, nothing," said Matheson airily, yet to tire of testing Doyle's breaking-point when time permitted. "It just seems a bit off, that' s all. I mean, here we all are, beavering away like industrious little clerks and Bodie hasn't even bothered to turn up."

"Bad form that," agreed King. "That's the trouble with these ex-mercs, no team spirit."

Doyle rubbed the end of his nose. "Too much for your delicate constitution, is he, flower?"

"Careful, 4.5. You'll be sticking up for him next."

"Sticking what up him? Oh, for him. Nah, there's no need. Bodie's a big boy, got his own set of teeth and everything."

"No need?" echoed Matheson, scandalised. "See? That's symptomatic of what's wrong. You're partners, or you're supposed to be. That means teamwork - like me and King - and you don't find us working apart, do you?"

"That's certainly true," agreed Doyle readily. "But it's hardly our fault if you two are so incompetent that you need each other's help to take a leak."

Unruffled, King gave a grin calculated to irritated. "Come off it, Doyle. You can tell us. You two have finally decided to call it a day, haven't you?"

Mildly entertained by this outsider's view of his teaming with a major but not insurmountable irritant, Doyle raised his eyebrows. "You reckon we should?"

The very together team in front of him exchanged a glance that spoke volumes.

Doyle relaxed back into his chair. "Bodie and I understand one another."

Matheson gave a crack of laughter. "You do? You hear that?" he appealed to a somnolent looking King.

"I heard. Just remember, Doyle. When you do go for each other's jugular don't forget Cowley will make the winner clean up the mess."

Tired of the never very entertaining double act, Doyle waved them away. "Been watching too much TV, you have," he said, mild as a lamb. "Bodie and I get on OK."

"If you say so," said Matheson, unconvinced.

"Oh, I do. Now piss off and let me read this in peace." Doyle's expression changed only when the door closed behind them.

As needle artists they were rank amateurs but the fact they had moved from questionable jokes about the Force to cracks about Bodie bothered him. Not least because they'd hit the jackpot. And if they were representative of the views of the rest of the squad then Cowley knew. His interest put a whole different complexion on things.

Pushing aside the printout and propping his feet on the edge of the desk, Doyle pushed his chair back on two legs and his neck tilting, contemplated the ceiling.

Bodie, William, Andrew Philip. Smooth, competent plus, amoral and with a lousy sense of timing when it came to delivering sick jokes. Or maybe not so bad, Doyle conceded fairly. They usually made him grin - which was better than snivelling any day of the week. Bodie could be an irritating bugger to work with but Cowley had been right about one thing, when it mattered they made a bloody efficient team. Pared down to essentials Bodie was the best you could find. And Bodie must be satisfied with his end of the deal or he would have said something. Silent suffering wasn't his style.

Doyle frowned. They might function in a crisis but what did he actually know about Bodie - or want to? They weren't 'partners'; not the way Matheson and King were, the abrasive edge too thinly concealed, the competition between them constant and unyielding.

That much wasn't likely to change overnight, Doyle conceded, righting his chair and giving a lazy, spine-cracking stretch, but that didn't matter; the fact that they weren't partners did. Sighing, he tugged idly at the lobe of one ear. For all that Bodie would drive Gabriel with angel's wings to drink he wasn't the only reason things weren't working the way they should.

It wasn't like Bodie to skive off when there was something big on.

Doyle yawned widely and wandered off to hone what few detecting skills remained to him at this hour of the morning.

 

Engrossed in the file he was reading and scowling because it was become obvious that this one would be the same waste of time the others had been, Bodie jumped when a hand touched his shoulder.

"Thought you could use a cup of tea," said Doyle, somehow finding space on the tiny, overloaded table.

"Ta." Not bothering to look up, Bodie reached for it with carbon-smudged fingers.

"Been here long?" added Doyle.

Slumped on his chair, Bodie smothered a yawn as he shook his head. "Only about - " He glanced at his watch. "Four o'clock!"

"Time flies when you're having fun. I've been in the computer room, getting nowhere slowly. I rang round few contacts - not a sniff. I'll try the rest tomorrow, arrange a few meetings. How about you?"

"Can't see any of my lot being much help on this one," said Bodie. "Thought I'd check on the background of a couple of the parents, just in case." He didn't need to add that he hadn't wanted company; his choice of workplace made that obvious.

"What background?" asked Doyle, leaning down to peer at the file. The typeface on the file label was too faint to distinguish, the classified stamp meaning little on a file that old.

"Gordon and Cohen are both old enough to have files from their days helping the war effort in Korea. Long was out in Cyprus as a cipher clerk. I'm checking them out this end. Found sweet F.A.," Bodie added.

"I hear Gordon went and died on you," said Doyle, who had done a little checking of his own before finding Bodie. Unsurprised, he watched Bodie's face lose all trace of expression. So that was it.

"Yeah. I must do something about my interrogation technique." His head bent, Bodie was busy tidying the yellowing carbon copies before he closed the file.

"Maybe. Still, it was lucky for the family that you were there to lend a hand. I can't claim this has been the must fun-filled day we've had since joining up."

"I don't suppose Gordon enjoyed it much either."

Doyle took the hint. "I didn't know you had any informants." He absent-mindedly reached for the cup of tea he had bought for Bodie.

Bodie smacked his hand away and made short work of finishing it. "Contacts," he corrected. "There's no reason why you should know. They're fussy about who they talk to."

"How many are we talking about?" asked Doyle.

"The odd one or two."

"Very odd, knowing you. How come I haven't met any of them?"

"For the same reason you haven't introduced me to any of yours."

Taken aback, Doyle stared at him. "There's Benny," he said.

At Bodie's crack of laughter Doyle gave a reluctant grin. "OK, I'll give you that one," he allowed.

"You couldn't give Benny away with greenshield stamps."

"Benny's OK."

Pinned by an unwinking stare, Bodie nodded. "Yeah, I know. Not the brightest pea in the pod though, is he. And he can't stand me."

"Just goes to prove he's a kid of taste." His thoughts obviously elsewhere, Doyle sighed as he conceded the point. There was no point whingeing about the slow progress of their partnership if he didn't do anything about it. Wait for Bodie to volunteer anything and you'd wait forever. Bit like expecting Cowley to buy a round...

"I suppose I've got to let you out on your lead some time," said Doyle. "If Cowley doesn't have us on something you may as well come out with me and see how the other half lives." His gaze flicked over Bodie's still impeccable suit and neatly fastened tie, wondering how he managed it. The only sign that he had been working for over thirty-six hours was his heavy beard shadow.

That got Bodie's attention. It took all Doyle's control not to fidget under Bodie's surveillance.

"All right," said Bodie, busy speculating about what was going on inside that shaggy head of hair. Doyle was up to something, he recognised the look.

"Fine. If my lot can't help, we'll try your lot. Share and share," he reminded Bodie. "What sort of information are they good for?"

"Very little. I save 'em for special occasions - small wars and insurgencies, stuff like that. They can't be bought with a packet of snout or the promise that a local copper will close his second blind eye."

Doyle experienced a familiar prickle of irritation. "You've got some funny ideas about coppers. To hear you talk you'd think they were all on the take."

"True. I can tell you who gave me the idea too. And you can take that snotty look off your face. There are rotten apples in every barrel."

Doyle straightened where he had been lounging against the metal shelving. "Are you including me in that survey?"

Bodie gave a reluctant grin and shook his head. Doyle wasn't the sort to take home to mother, not least because she'd probably make a takeover bid. "You're a lot of things, most of them objectionable, but bent isn't one of them."

It had the ring of a compliment, even to Doyle.

"I'll try not to let the eulogy go to my head," he promised. "I'm hungry. Have you eaten?"

"Don't remind me," Bodie groaned. "I'm starving but at this time of the morning everywhere's shut."

"The Nick around the corner has a twenty-four hour canteen and I know the desk sergeant," said Doyle smugly.

Bodie rose from behind the stack of files with little resemblance to Venus from the waves. "I think I'm in love," he announced. One hand in the small of Doyle's back, he steered them to the door.

 

"Well, that was a waste of time," said Doyle, frowning as he watched the tattered figure disappear found the end of the street.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Bodie. "Very educational, that was. What were they crawling in his hair again?"

Doyle resisted the urge to scratch.

"Why you thought he'd know anything," added Bodie, making no bones about scratching.

"You'd be surprised," said Doyle, giving in and scratching with vigour.

"Amazed is more like it. What's he on when he's not drinking meths?"

"Whatever he can scrounge. Stop being so snotty. Jacko is OK. He gets by. More than you'd think."

Bodie swallowed his retort. If he didn't know better he'd swear Doyle had a soft spot for the smelly old sot. Doyle was still staring at the end of the street, as if trying to trace Jacko's path.

"He'll be all right," Bodie said. "Can we get out of here? This place reeks."

"Too much for your delicate sensibilities?" asked Doyle.

"Just too much Jacko," said Bodie. As they emerged into the chilly dawn air of Tower Hamlets he inhaled deeply. There wasn't much improvement, but he wasn't about to admit as much.

"How old do you reckon he is?" asked Doyle, as they got into the car.

To Bodie's relief all the tyres were still present and inflated. "Seventy?" he hazarded without much interest.

"He's two years younger than Cowley."

The car stalled.

"He outranks Cowley, too," continued Doyle. "Or he did before he had a breakdown. He lost the army, his family... You want me to drive?"

"You have a point to make?" asked Bodie, restarting the engine with as much dignity as was possible in the circumstances.

"Only if you're thicker than I think. Stop being so superior. Jacko's seen and done more than the pair of us put together. There's more to life than Savile Row tailoring - not that you'll be finding much of that where we're going today."

Bodie fantasised about hitting him - just once. The self-righteous little prick. Who the hell did he think... Fifty-five years old, a Lieutenant-Colonel at least... If it could happen to him, it could happen to anyone. Not a topic he wanted to think about. Not in their line of work, with disabling injury an all too real possibility.

"How did you first met Jacko?" asked Bodie, his curiosity stirred despite himself. Doyle was silent for so long that he began to wonder if he was going to reply.

"When I first started pounding the beat. I had a police flat near where he dossed down. It was Jacko who told me about CI5 a good few months before I got to hear about it from other sources. Sid and I used to - "

"Who's Sid?"

"My partner. My ex-partner." Doyle's flat tone made it plain that particular subject was closed. "Take the next turning to the right, we should catch Judy having supper."

"At this hour?" said Bodie, his lack of sleep beginning to tell.

"She works late," said Doyle. "That's the café two doors down. And there she is."

 

"You have such a high-class list of snitches," said Bodie. He bent down, making use of a discarded cabbage leaf to clean off his shoes as they walked through a crowded Berwick Market; the fruit and veg. stalls were doing a roaring trade. He frowned upon noticing the state of his suit trousers. It went against the grain to start dressing down but the dry-cleaning bills were murder...

His expression bland, Doyle refrained from comment. All things considered, Bodie had taken the morning better than he had expected.

"They might not drink at Anabel's but they're useful. I'll pass Neil's info. onto the Drugs Squad. You could have scored there, you know."

"Of course I knew," said Bodie. "I'm almost afraid to ask how you met him. Don't you know anyone but hookers and winos? While the Drugs Squad might be happy it's more than Cowley will be."

"The only thing that would make Cowley happy is if someone left him a distillery. You want an apple?"

"You buying?" asked Bodie, who was a quick learner.

"What do you think?"

"A pound of those red ones, mate," Bodie said to the stall-holder, fishing in his pocket.

He took the brown paper bag with a nod of thanks and tossed an apple to Doyle before taking a healthy chunk out of another. He wouldn't have missed this morning for worlds. Five contacts with five different reactions to Doyle: fear; matter-of-fact welcome; businesslike dislike; and an exuberant hug. And then there had been Solly, who'd greeted Doyle as if he was his long-lost son.

One thought leading to another, Bodie raised one foot to check the sole of his new shoes.

"Will you give it a rest," said Doyle.

"That floor was sodden. I'm sure I've got blood on my trousers, I can still smell it," complained Bodie.

"Don't exaggerate," said Doyle. "You could eat a meal off that floor. Anyone would think you'd never been in a butchers before. Turning vegetarian on me, are you?"

"A kosher butcher yet. How did you meet him? No, don't tell me."

Fixed by a suspicious blue stare Doyle was all limpid innocence. "I thought it was time you got to see a different side of London. You can have too much high living."

"You speak for yourself. I've got a meet fixed for Friday afternoon. You want to come?"

"Where to?"

"The Ritz. For afternoon tea."

"You what?"

"You heard me. You'll have to wear something better than that though. Mitchell's fussy about who he talks to."

Bodie's reaction to their tour had been a pleasant surprise so Doyle just nodded. "I'll be there. You might have to lend me a tie though."

"You could always buy one," said Bodie, before he glanced heavenward. "What am I saying, Ray Doyle spend money he can't claim on expenses."

Doyle just grinned and helped himself to a second apple.

"Speaking of expenses, how are you going to cover the cost of this morning? Cowley will never pass the scotch and cigarettes for Jacko for one thing."

"How did you - ? Must have eyes in your backside," muttered Doyle, dodging a laden shopper on the narrow pavement.

"Observation, my son. I suppose the morning wasn't an entire waste of time. That Chinese restaurant wasn't bad. Gerard Street, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, but save it for a special occasion, it'll cost you an arm and a leg just to pick up the chopsticks. Worth it mind, but save it for a special bird."

"And there was me planning to take you," said Bodie, giving a motorbike courier the finger as they crossed the street.

"I'll hold you to that."

"I know. It's by what that worries me. Where are we going now?"

"Shortcut to the car. The tour's over. Time to call in and hope we can snatch forty winks."

"If the car hasn't been nicked."

"You must think I'm simple. Safe as houses this spot is." They rounded a corner; Doyle fell silent, staring at the place his car had occupied.

Bodie's grin broadened as he predicted Cowley's reaction. Doyle was already in the dog-house for collecting five parking tickets.

"Bodie..."

"Already in retreat, Bodie paused, then reluctantly went back. What else, he reminded himself, was a partner for?

 

"The mood the Old Man's in after hearing that bombing was down to an insurance fiddle that went wrong, he'll have me on toast," said Doyle with mournful conviction. He was so engrossed with his own troubles that he paid for the taxi without even a token protest.

"It wasn't your fault the car got nicked," said Bodie.

"Try telling Cowley that. Oh well, here goes nothing," muttered Doyle as he went in through the side door.

"True. Right, I'm off home to bed. Good luck, mate," said Bodie briskly.

"You always seem to get on all right with the old bastard," said Doyle, with little real hope. He knew Bodie's philosophy by now - never volunteer for anything and stay cool, uninvolved.

Bodie just looked at him. Even Doyle's curls seemed to be drooping and Cowley wasn't sunny-tempered on a good day...

"All right," he sighed, "let's get it over with."

"You're a real mate." Doyle took the stairs two at a time, whistling.

"Why do I get the feeling I've been conned?" wondered Bodie out loud, keeping up with him with ease.

Doyle's grin held considerable charm. "Can't imagine. You know, I've just realised. You were driving. Did you remember to close the window before you locked up?"

"Course I..." Bodie's voice trailed away, chagrin on his face. "Oh shit! Doyle! Oy!" He only just caught hold of him. "Where d'you think you're off to?"

Limpid green eyes met the silent menace of the man pinning him to the wall. "Well, in the circumstances I don't see that I can be of much help, do you? You don't seriously expect - ? This partner's lark is proving a bit expensive, isn't it?"

"You saying I'm not worth it?" inquired Bodie.

Overly conscious of the warmth emanating from the other man, Doyle ducked under Bodie's arm and patted him on the backside. "I'll let you know," he said, heading towards Cowley's office.

"When?" enquired Bodie, following close on his heels. Unless he was losing the plot the little bastard was flirting with him.

Doyle glanced over his shoulder as he knocked on Cowley's door. "When the time's right."

"You took long enough to get here. What's this I hear about...?"

Sighing, Bodie followed Doyle in to meet their doom.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Written 1986
> 
> Published in _The Small Print 2_


End file.
